


Then by Day I Would Weave the Great Web But by Night Would Unravel It

by TheRightfulDose



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, s06e07 The Honeypot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:33:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRightfulDose/pseuds/TheRightfulDose
Summary: When Kevin is upset, he bakes. Set during "The Honeypot" (season 6, episode 7).
Relationships: Kevin Cozner/Ray Holt
Comments: 22
Kudos: 135





	Then by Day I Would Weave the Great Web But by Night Would Unravel It

_Then by day I would weave the great web, but by night would unravel it –_

*

When Kevin is upset, he bakes.

_One_. Roll up the sleeves. Put on the apron. Wash hands (thoroughly). Gather up the ingredients.

(It is not that important, none of it. He overreacted last night. When Raymond comes home, he should apologize.)

*

_Two_. Flour (self-raising, 450 grammes). Salt (a tad, carefully pinched between his fingers). Baking powder (the satchel is open, teaspoon placed next to it). Butter (100 grammes, cut into regular squares).

When Kevin is upset, he tries not to think of old Greek texts, of epiphets, of absent husbands. He does want to consider wives waiting, ever loyal, ever lonely. (Everyone knows what she did at night; her days are more of a mystery. Ruled over their kingdom, presumably. Had her duties, oversaw harvests, settled disputes, taught her son. Cleaned. Read. Baked.)

He measures out ingredients, lines them neatly on the kitchen island, in order of use. Cheddar sits quietly, now and then getting up to press his face against Kevin’s leg.

(Did she ever wonder about his doings? Did she ever fear another woman, those other women? Would it matter to her, as long as he came back, as long as she could hear his breathing, watch his chest rise and fall, in the knowledge he is safe and alive? _I want you to tell me everything, especially the things that might frighten me._ )

No. Focus. Take. Weigh.

*

He remembers sitting in the back of a taxi, Raymond’s _wedding ring_ pressing into his skin, his own still a foreign weight. They had not chosen a pre-nup, it would frankly be ridiculous, their lives are as entangled as their fingers. Kevin was deliriously happy – everything else, the past, his parents’ disapproval, Raymond’s horrid colleagues, seemed as inconsequential as cobwebs.

“You know,” when his _husband’s_ voice (and oh, he can say that now, he can say it and none can deny it) rumbled low, Kevin immediately turned, “While I am highly satisfied with the outcome,” (He tweaked an eyebrow; Raymond’s eye sparkled,) “I do wish the _officiant_ had been more _efficient_.”

It took a moment to set in, the words sinking through the glorious joy. He laughed, softly, for most of the taxi ride, unable to stop, unable to think past the haze of happiness and love. Raymond squeezed his hand, delight in the sudden spark of teeth in his smile.

(In view of their lives, in view of such moments, what does three hours mean? Nothing, nothing. He overreacted. He will apologize. When Raymond comes home.)

*

Caster sugar (jar still closed, tablespoon next to it). Buttermilk (284 millilitres, slightly heated). Vanilla extract (pipet next to it). Raisins (51 grammes).

He added the raisins for the first time three days after Charles had first suggested it; the detective had insisted the sweetness would be a bonus, not a detraction. Kevin, who had come home to an empty house and a husband in witness protection, whose comfortable clothes all seemed irritating and scratchy and whose jaw was continuously clenched and who pressed his fingers together so he would feel his wedding ring digging into his flesh, had been snappish and cold in return, as he had been to all of the detectives every time they had stood, unannounced and unwanted, before his door.

Three days later, Gina told him they had been ordered not to contact him when this all began, and that their impromptu, awkward visits were in defiance of direct orders.

“I’m telling you this so you can better yourself,” she said absentmindedly, tapping away on her phone, as he had blinked in dismay. “My self-worth cannot be lowered by any action of a petty mortal, but you’re being a bit of a downer to the rest of the squad. Charles cried. I mean, he cries a lot, even when Jake is here, but now it was because of you. And if Amy gets anymore mousey, she’ll disappear into the walls. Wearing down their self-esteem is my thing, not yours – you’re not even getting a kick out of it.” She looked up, and he wondered if this was how his students felt when he stared them down. “I get you miss the Captain and all, but we all do. That’s why we’re here. Because you’re important to him. So, seriously Kevin, find your own hobby.”

He lay awake that night, Cheddar curled into his side, muscles in his neck taut, staring up at the ceiling, hand clenched in a fist, the warm metal against as much of his skin as possible –

(He refused to lie on his side and confront the empty space next to him. It was the only period of time he had ever lain on his back. Raymond would be surprised – their first weeks living together had been a flirty cycle of well-reasoned arguments and smiles in return, until he had finally murmured: “But Raymond, then I would not see you first thing in the morning.” Raymond had been flustered and had preened, straightening his shoulders and looking at Kevin with a surprised, warm sparkle in his eyes, and Kevin had momentarily been unable to breathe, the adoration in his chest constricting his airways. Raymond had not argued any further, but they brought it up occasionally, still, to tease one another, and they would again, when he returned, if he returned, if he did not die, if he was not dead and they had simply not told him, if his husband, _Raymond_ was not simply bleeding out on a floor somewhere, rivulets of blood like the threads of a web, unravelling under his fingers –)

And at two o’clock at night, Kevin, guilty, nauseous and upset – with criminals, with the FBI, with the squad, with Raymond, with the world, but mostly with himself –, threw off the bed covers. He went to the kitchen, a surprised Cheddar padding after him. He baked scones, and after a second of hesitation, added a hundred grams of raisins to his dough. Charles’s second suggestion, buttermilk which was essentially off, he could not bring himself to use – but he was surprised at himself for even considering it.

The next day, he had a stilted conversation about early Christian art with Amy, who simultaneously seemed overjoyed and confused, and handed her ten of the twelve scones he had baked, to take to the precinct. He closed the door behind her, feeling less nauseous, and had thought of each member of Raymond’s squad, weaving in and out of his house – out of _Raymond’s_ house, to visit Raymond’s husband, tenaciously returning time and time again, like a warp on a loom, and what that says about them, and what that says about Raymond.

(He will apologize tonight, when Raymond comes home. Raymond will accept his apology, and he will inquire which type of scone his husband would prefer for breakfast – the plain ones, of course, the raisins, slightly decadent, are kept when they want to indulge in their sweet tooth – but still, it would be impolite not to ask. He will then freeze the others. They will have a quiet night in, discussing the _New Yorker_ article about rising house prices in the city, and what that might mean for the people they know – for Kevin’s new teaching assistant, Neveah, and her girlfriend, and for Amy and Jake, who may want extra room now they are considering children. He will picture the web of their lives, the one they made together, spreading out over the city, over their loved ones. They will go to bed at half past ten, and he will lie on his side and watch his husband’s breathing even out, and he will not think of Circes and Calypsos, of shrouds and loose threads and the itch in his fingers, and the terrifying temptation to pluck it all apart in a quest for certainty, to still the terrible, terrible self-hate that still rises now and then –)

*

Kevin falls silent, withdraws when he is upset, throwing himself on hobbies and knowledge, not with gusto, but with despair. There is history to explain that, of course, a childhood of being seen, not heard, and never-ending after-school classes in music, mathematics, debate, tennis, meant to mould the personality and tendencies his parents expected, but instead occasionally feel like a painstakingly crafted veil to hide his fear and cowardice.

If one tries to draw that veil, he snaps, tense and cold, tearing arguments and personalities apart.

(He unravels when he is upset. He knows this. He will not tonight. Not when Raymond comes home.)

*

When Kevin is upset, he bakes.

_Three_. Combine the dry ingredients. _Four_. Rub the butter cubes into it, clumps sticking to fingers. _Five_. Add the milk. _Six_. Mix everything.

He is always careful and methodical, whether he is upset or not; and so he removes each receptacle once he has added the ingredient, mops up any spills, and washes his hands in-between. Cheddar sits next to the kitchen island, out of the way, tail thumping rhythmically, and he now and then pauses to pet him and feed him a raisin.

When Kevin is upset, he creates protein strands, small pockets ready to be filled with hot air. It is chemistry, not poetry, not a metaphor, a chain of reactions, which will result in piping-hot scones, golden scones, 6 with raisins, 6 without.

(He tries to stay away from metaphors, from pictures and lives created through the careful, methodical addition of strands. Of deliberately introducing knots, loose, waving threads, as to have an excuse to destroy. He tries not to think about a loom in the dark and a spouse waiting. He tries not to think about lying awake, staying awake, undoing your own fragile creation with angry thoughts and jealous fingers. Three hours are nothing, not on a lifetime, no matter what Calypso looked like. He will apologize when Raymond comes home.)

*

_Seven_. Press out the dough on a lightly floured surface. _Eight_. Form into rounds (twelve). _Nine_. Spread out on the baking sheet. Use buttermilk as a glaze.

He shapes half the dough into neat circles, exactly 7.5 centimetres circumference; adds the raisins to the other half and repeats the process. He spaces the rounds out on the baking sheet, one half without raisins, one half with, and uses a glazing brush for the buttermilk. When he closes the oven door (220 degrees, 10 minutes), his work surface is nearly as clean as when he started, and while the scones rise he begins the washing up.

(It is silly, downright silly, barrels are Raymond’s passion, not his. He goes along, of course, happily, giddily, especially if Raymond says “indulge me” in those rich tones, with that spark in his eyes. And he asks questions, slightly teasing, and sardonically quotes overly dramatic poetry when Raymond asks his opinion on certain unorthodox wood-metal pairings, and Raymond fights a smile in response. At some point Raymond says, “Honestly, Professor Kevin Cozner, PhD, the _decorum_ ”, the delight in his tone betraying his carefully enunciated words, and Kevin feels Raymond’s eyes raking his body, and he replies teasingly, “I do apologize, Captain Raymond Holt, it must be the company.” And Raymond smiles – once, twice, it has happened that if all his quotes are right on the mark, if his timing is impeccable, Raymond actually laughs out loud – and takes his hand, and Kevin, drunk on the sensation, weaves their fingers together, his wedding ring between Raymond’s fingers.

He has had this for so long now, hoarded gold-thread memories stitched into his life, and he remembers so well when they could not do that, when he was too frightened of the looks and the danger to do it. It should be easier than this. But he cannot bear the idea of Raymond’s fingers interwoven with anyone else’s, Raymond’s voice explaining the merits of American white oak versus French common oak in someone else’s ear, not even when it is measured in hours instead of decades, not when the decades feel so fragile in his fearful mind.) _._

*

_but by night –_

Though it is unsanitary, he lets Cheddar lick the spatula clean.

(“It is alright, you know,” Professor O’Donoghue said, condescendingly. “You are not the first with such – _proclivities_. As long as you’re discrete about it, it should not be a problem,” and Kevin felt his shoulders stiffen, relief and dismay warring with each other. And while Raymond brazenly, beautifully, existed, in the city, in their apartment, in his bed, he kept as silent as his parents’ house was. He worked hard, read everything, taught any class they would allow him. Now and then he rubbed his fingers against his chest absent-mindedly, imagining a thread that runs from his cowardly heart to Raymond Holt’s fingers.)

He pets Cheddar, feeling stretched out, tired, fraying at the edges. His fingers itch.

*

He is standing with the baking plate clenched in his oven mitts when he hears the front door open. He recognizes Jake’s voice calling his name with a shameful relief.

“I’m in the kitchen,” he replies, in a slightly elevated volume, as he carefully places the baking plate on the kitchen island and takes off the mitts.

“Oh, hey Kevin! The beard’s still amazing, I see. What are you making?” and he sees again Jake stretch out a hand as he babbles about some “coolest of cool” feat of police work – he snaps: “ _Hot_ , Jake!” and then Jake yelps and Kevin has grasped the offending hand, is dragging him to the sink and is turning the tap on.

“Ow! Hey!”

“Cold running water,” he instructs, over the younger man’s protestations, “for –”

“Ten minutes, yes I remember,” Jake grumbles, gloomily staring at his red fingers.

He feels a familiar surge of irritation and affection. “How do you remember that, but not not to touch hot objects?”

Jake looks up at him, grinning, and shrugs.

*

_Ten_. Cold, running water (10 minutes). Apply anti-burn hydrating cream. Cover the burnt appendage with bandages.

In the safe house, Jake burnt his hand on the turned-on stove by leaning on it with his full weight. Kevin was shook, both by Jake’s face contorted in pain, and his own emotional reaction to that, and therefore he had snapped and insulted. Jake varied between desperate chattering and grinning, and something more subdued and silent. At such moments, his gaze, suddenly vulnerable, flitted from and to Kevin’s left hand, which was clenched around Jake’s wrist for the full fifteen minutes it took them to crawl to the bathroom (Jake had refused to use the sink in the kitchen as it was not a safe spot, and Kevin had understood the frustrated affection that so often laced Raymond’s words when the detective came up in conversation), hold Jake’s hand under the tap, apply the anti-burn cream (“There’s a cream for that? Huh, wish I’d known that when I was nine!” – “That statement is deeply troubling.”) and swaddle Jake’s hand in bandages (“Cool, can we do my face too, and pretend I’m a mummy?” – “I’d like to remind you you’re above thirty.”).

In those fifteen minutes, Jake told him about the eggplant emoji (“Wow, I did not think this through, I just said penis to my da- my boss’s husband, that’s awkward. Remind me not to discuss the water drops emoji with you”), and he in turn explained Raymond and he already knew about the Parisian gift basket, and that he had been picking up and holding the stationary each time he visited the precinct on purpose to see their reactions (“I believe you’d say, ‘I was messing with you’.” - “Oh damn. You’re _evil_. The captain married a super villain. That’s so _cool_ ”). Jake also enacted, with his free hand flying wildly, how Raymond and he had arrested the Oolong Slayer (to “become” Raymond, Jake stared at himself in the mirror and wagged a finger at himself: “Peralta, that’s enough!” Kevin blamed the high emotions and unexpectedness of the scene for his guffaw, but Jake’s slightly awed glance almost was worth it). When Jake’s voice rose a whole three octaves (“and then, there’s a voice saying ‘Am I invited?’ And we turn around… - and it’s dad!”), it occurred to Kevin that Jake’s veneration of Raymond may be the only one that comes close to his own, and while finishing the binding, he thought it might be time to admit to himself his own fondness of the younger man.

After detailing the aftercare for the wound, he finished the detective’s “cool cool cool cool cool” with “indeed, no doubt, no doubt” in his own exact tones, and Jake’s surprised laugh is oddly satisfying. That evening, when getting up during a break in the Nicolas Cage movie (honestly, did they really believe no one had ever studied the Declaration of Independence?), he asked if he could bring Jake anything from the kitchen, and Jake replied, “No, thanks dad.” The young man was staring intently at the screen, though it was paused, and seemed unaware of his Freudian slip. Kevin waited a moment, not sure whether to point it out or not, and finally departed to get his tea without commenting.

*

_Eleven_. Let cool.

“Those your scones? Amy was really raving about them. Well, to be fair, you gave it to her so she’d be enthusiastic anyway – oh hey Cheddar!” The corgi has gently placed a paw on Jake’s shoe, taps it once, and sits back; “That is so _weird_. So, can I try one?”

He breathes out, every line of him tinged with annoyance, and sees Jake quickly lower his head. “I’ll box two up, one for you and one for Amy.” Jake perks up like Cheddar’s ears when he smells chicken, and Kevin feels an answering warmth in his chest. “But first, I’ll get –”

“Anti-burn cream and bandages. I surmised what happened and went upstairs to retrieve the items.”

Kevin turns to the kitchen door, but immediately drops his gaze.

Raymond is home.

Kevin’s fingers press together, the ring biting in his flesh, and the room is filled with threads that will break, unravel, if he so much as breathes.

And despite that, he cannot bring himself to speak. He will apologize, he will. As soon as he can break through the possessive, terrified jealousy that claws at him.

*

_And at night unravelled them all –_

He has done so once before, sitting on a carpet, with Jake half-asleep next to him. He had been sick of the building, of the lack of books, of the overdose of Nicholas Cage, of the smell of pizza everywhere, of the disappointment after the momentary surge of relief every time he saw his husband, every time Raymond studiously not looked at him, but his eyes instead flitted through the room, checking windows, doors, exits. He wanted to scream every time Raymond tilted his head slightly in that way Kevin loved, signalling intent listening, but it was no longer to explore the opposition between Van Eyck and Rafael, it was no longer so they could discuss the instrumentals after the opera, it was checking for footsteps, intruders, and it just meant Kevin might as well be the loot from a drugs bust, simply an object to protect. So he reached out to the web, told Raymond, _look at this, our lives woven together, it’s ours_ , took one of the loose strings and threatened to _pull_ –

He had stood outside a building, not knowing if Raymond was dead or alive, only aware he had seen the cold, grey truth of a gun pressed to Raymond’s side. He had nightmares for weeks, after that. And months, months before that, he had lain awake many nights, thinking of blood like a shroud, threads spreading out far away from everything Kevin.

He laid awake last night as well, thinking of Circe, of Calypso, and he knows, into the marrow of his bones, which is the worse option. The space next to him on his bed has been empty too often, in reality and in his dreams.

Never, never again. Not for a thousand _Lundts_. Certainly not over barrels, or over three hours.

Not even if Raymond spoke to another like that, if he had entangled his fingers (nothing else, Raymond would not, _never_ ) with someone else.

He tucked his nervous, jealous fingers into his palm.

Don’t pluck the threads, don’t unravel it.

*

He could not say it. But he could be silent.

“Ow-kaaaay, this is sups awkward, and it’s definitely been ten minutes, right? I’ll just go, it’s fine, I don’t need –”

“It has not been ten minutes, Jacob, please stay where you are.” Raymond sounds calm, and Kevin’s fingers twitch.

Kevin turns around, opens the Tupperware cupboard. “Would you and Amy like with raisins or without?”

_Twelve_. Two scones, each grown to 8 inches in diameter. Estimate the size of the box. 20 inches to 10 inches.

“Maybe one of each? Ames probably will want to try plain, because she knows the Captain loves those, but I want sugar, so raisins, and we can split if she decides the boring one is too boring even for her. Because that’s the awesome husband I am, I will eat half a boring scone for my wife. By the way, in case you hadn’t noticed yet, I feel like I’m super intruding, so I’m probably going to babble –”

“We noticed.” Raymond is moving around the kitchen island, he sees from the corner of his eye, closer to Jake. He thinks his husband might be looking at him, but he refuses to look up.

(Raymond has always been braver than him – ready to take on any situation, undeniable, present. He remembered looking at those hands, those shoulders that first night, and the contrast with his own frame. Kevin tended to fade into the wallpaper, pushed aside with a mere gush of adversity; the possibility would not occur to Raymond, who was grounded and beautifully decisive.

He overreacted, he did, but he imagined Raymond’s hand in another’s, and he cannot forget it. There is an itch in his fingers he does not want to give into. So he does not look up.)

“– Okay then, anybody got any preferences? Never mind, I can’t pause for an answer, I’ve started, not going to stop, hey Kev, let me tell you about today! It was awesome! We totally trashed the Commissioner!”

He listens to Jake talking. The younger man is losing himself in his tale, voice enthusiastically rising and falling as he details every acronym he came up with, while Kevin carefully, slowly, places the scones (one raisin, one plain) in the box, feeling himself relax slightly as Jake chatters on. They have done marvellously, indeed – and that such a conservative monster got outwitted by Raymond, _Raymond_ , who was not considered for the position because he is black, and gay, and a troublemaker, is a delightful turn. When Jake’s voice becomes a high-pitch as he details “the coolest thing that ever happened”, which apparently is the acronym Raymond came up with, he feels a surge of affection, and he finally casts a glance upward.

Raymond is watching him. His shoulders are slightly raised, suggesting tension, and he is – there is no other word for it – _toying_ with the tube of cream, absentmindedly turning it over in his right hand. His face however is open, his eyes not searching his for any confirmation or condemnation, but simply content to look at Kevin, his cowardly, terrified husband, who is rooted to the spot, who has been worrying about a mere three hours while Raymond has been outwitting racist windbags and protecting others, and he thinks desperately, _I love you_ –

“I would like to apologize for my behaviour last night. I was upset, and I overreacted. You had not done anything to merit my actions.” His voice cuts through Jake’s ramblings, and he wonders if Jake hears the tremor that lurks under his steady voice. Raymond has, undoubtedly.

“There’s no need to apologize, Kevin,” Raymond replies, his beloved voice low, but he shakes his head, helplessly.

“You explained why it happened, all perfectly reasonable.” He clasps his hands together, the warm metal of his wedding ring against as many fingers as possible. Cheddar trots over, sensing his discomfort, and presses his head against his leg. He feels stupid, and the guilt only grows when he sees new evidence of tension in Raymond’s body language – had he thought Kevin would still lock him out, that he would still be as furious as he had been last night? Had this weighted on him as much as it had on Kevin, this day while he had hoodwinked commissioners and spies? He suddenly feels cold – had Raymond considered the end of their marriage? His eyes are roaming over his husband, cataloguing signs of Raymond’s discomfort – he is resting his weight ever so lightly on his left hand, which is lying on the kitchen island, the left corner of his mouth is slightly lower than the right, he is blinking at a quicker pace than usual, and Kevin wants to reach out, trace the lines on that dear face – “I had an emotional overreaction. I apologize. Forgive me.” The words rush out.

“Just – look I don’t think I ought to be here – can I go?”

“Apply the cream first, Jacob.” Raymond’s voice is steady but too clipped to be at ease, and _Kevin loves him_.

“Come on, I barely touched the thing!”

“Please, Jake,” Kevin says, turning to him. Jake tries to pull a face at him, but it morphs into something a bit more vulnerable when he continues, trying to strive for a modicum of calm, but instead becoming overly formal: “I would dislike it if your pre-emptive departure would result in further injuries.”

Jake blows out a breath, turns off the tap and turns to Raymond, who is unscrewing the cap of the tube. “I will accept your apology, Kevin, if you insist on making one.” His husband looks at him, the light of the setting sun through the kitchen window illuminating those well-known features. His eyes are soft, but the tension is still there, and Kevin is angry with himself for causing it and for not knowing how to make it disappear. “But it is not necessary. I doubt I would have reacted with as much grace as you did if you were to tell me you spent three hours at a barrel exhibition with another man.”

He does not remember any grace – when he is angry, when he is hurt, he is cold, flintstone cutting. He blows out a breath and pulls the bandages Raymond brought to him, beginning to sort through them – they have a collection of band-aids with cartoon characters, purchased when Martin visited with his family, Jake might like those, he thinks absent-mindedly. “Hardly likely, you know I’m not as passionate about practical transport artefacts history as you are.”

“Wait, what? There’s a term for that? – Da – Sir, I’m not that helpless!”

“I know,” Raymond tells him gently, as he holds out a hand. Jake’s face contorts again, and he puts his injured hand into Raymond’s, who begins to apply generous doses of cream to his three burnt fingertips. “I am aware – as I hope you are, Kevin, that I detested every minute of it. I did not want to share that with anyone but you, let alone with a spy sent in the assumption I would be unfaithful. I felt insulted that they believed I would fall for a ruse like that.” There is silence for a moment. “It was degrading.” There is a hint of emotion in Raymond’s voice, and Kevin feels fury bubble up in him.

“I am sorry that you had to experience that.” He cannot begin to name all the emotions that are in his voice – he wishes, quite irrationally, he could undo the past days, go back to last weekend and start over. He wants to reach out, trace the bridge of Raymond’s nose, run a reverent hand over his head, reassuring them both of each other.

“Thank you for your empathic reaction.” And Raymond, his clever, honourable, beautiful husband, finally relaxes. He looks at Kevin, and smiles, softly, as the tension flees his body. Kevin feels dizzily relieved – he has said the right thing, it’s fine, Raymond is fine, he is fine, they’re _fine_ – and then Raymond’s eyes, nearly involuntarily, dwell over his face, lingering, and the corner of his mouth ticks up, unconsciously. Kevin feels the beginning of a flush.

When they began dating, it took him some time to realize that what Raymond lacked in his life, was tenderness. No one seemed to admire him, to see the full beauty of him – and so Kevin decided to fully show the adoration he had tried to keep hidden till then. So he considered Raymond’s face as if it were an ancient scroll he pondered over for hours, pressed his lips to Raymond’s as if he were a pilgrim and Raymond was a holy relic, studied and examined his words like a close reading – familiar and wondrous. Kevin was meticulous, and careful, and he had studied and worshipped and committed Raymond to memory with all the strength of his not inconsiderable intelligence – and right now, he was reminded forcefully of last Sunday morning, sunlight illuminating patches of bed sheets and his husband’s skin, and Raymond’s slow answering smile when he suggested staying in bed till nine. 

“You’re welcome,” and oh, Raymond’s smile broadened, and he was smitten again, “I love you, Raymond.”

“I love you as well.” Raymond turns to Jake as Kevin tries to regain some self-restraint – it would be terrible bad form to just throw himself at his husband and cling to him. “Jake, I think you had better have a band-aid on the wound.”

“Would you like stars and spaceships or kittens, Jake?” Kevin holds up the choices. His fingers are hardly trembling, his wedding ring is shining.

“Uhm – the spaceships, please, da – dev – Kev.” To his dismay, Jake is sniffling as he puts his hand out to him, without any protest.

“Jake, are you alright?” he asks worriedly – the younger man _would_ be capable of injuring himself while being treated for other hurts – 

“No! Yes! Whatever, I’m not crying, you’re crying!” Jake sounds slightly hysterical now.

“Jacob, neither of us is crying.” There is something careful but warm in Raymond’s tone, and his gaze, slightly amused, flickers from Jake back to him, suggesting there is no danger, and Kevin stops worrying. He reaches for the blue, sparkly band-aids and smiles at his husband. Raymond's eyes twinkle in reply.

“Whatever, you two are ganging up on me with your being considerate and having adult communication and healthy relationships, don’t think I’m not on to you.”

“Our marriage is not some devious plot to torture you, Jake.” Raymond is talking to Jake, but he is watching Kevin’s fingers, quickly circling Jake’s with the band-aid, and there’s a heat in his gaze that makes Kevin wish the younger man out of the house, no matter how fond he is of him. “However, as you are already slightly emotional, we will refrain from further inquiring into your well-being.” His voice drops an octave. “That band-aid is expertly applied, Kevin.”

Kevin feels giddy – it has been a long time since they have flirted so openly in front of other people. “Thank you for the compliment, Raymond.”

“C'mon, 'expertly done', it's a band-aid, not - oh wow that's really tidy.” There’s still a tremor in Jake’s voice, but he seems to have regained his self-control. “Thanks, Kev. Uh – you two are really gazing in each other’s eyes, huh? I’ve missed something again? I’ll just get out of your hair then, shall I?”

“Do take the scones, Jake.” He continues to hold Raymond’s gaze, though he is now certain he is blushing. They are close to _indecent_.

“I will just see him out,” Raymond murmurs, reaching out and briefly tangling their fingers together. Their wedding rings touch, and Kevin finds himself smiling as he nods.

“Of course, Raymond.” Something occurs to him. “Would you prefer plain or raisin scones tomorrow morning?”

He watches, adoring and slightly aroused, as Raymond briefly purses his lips in thought. “I feel somewhat adventurous – raisins.”

“On a weekday? Goodness.” His tone is teasing, and Raymond’s gaze is heating up again.

“Alright, now you two are _definitely_ doing your weird flirting, so I have the box, I’m going, bye Cheddar – the dog is _waving_ at me, what is this _place_ – thank you so much, Kev!”

“Have a pleasant evening, Jake,” he replies politely, tearing his eyes from his husband for a second to smile at the younger man. “Give my regards to Amy.”

Jake does finger guns with one hand. “Yeah, I will, love y- catch you laterzzz, okay bye!” He turns around quickly, and Raymond steers him out of the kitchen. The murmur of their voices moves away, and Kevin turns back to the scones, picking out two with raisins and preparing the others to be frozen.

When Raymond returns, he says, thoughtfully, still focussed on the scones: “We ought to invite them over for dinner sometime.”

“I will suggest it tomorrow.” His hand is suddenly engulfed. He looks up. Raymond’s gaze is questioning. “You are… no longer upset?”

“I’m not.” He turns his hand around, and Raymond immediately entangles their fingers. “We’re fine.”

Raymond smiles back. “We are.”

**Author's Note:**

> The raisin scones are, of course, my addition, as is Kevin baking them. I imagine they sometimes get them from a bakery, and sometimes bake them themselves. All baking instructions relate to how I bake scones. I once got it from a British source (as I did my spelling, and my references to Celsius instead of Fahrenheit).
> 
> I cannot remember the last time I wrote fanfiction - but I'm so happy I started again. Brooklyn Nine-Nine is right now the thing that keeps me going, and I've been gorging myself on Kevin x Holt fics for most of quarantine. Anything I have read up till now has definitely served as inspiration for this, and I want to thank everyone who has written something under this tag (especially if you're under my bookmarks: I love you). You are wonderful. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this. Thank you for reading, and leave a comment or kudos :-)


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